Alphanumeric
by kurgaya
Summary: Hallucinogenic Gentleman #3 - AU - Fem/Fem - Ichigo/Toshiro - Ichigo makes a note not to sound overly surprised when she thanks Kouhei for calling Tōshirō – he has no idea that contacting the realm of the dead through a mobile phone is even possible, after all.


**Notes**: This follows prompt **#5 DAGGER** in 'Desire Rearranged'. You are going to need to read that to understand this.

Though I cannot personally thank the pigeon that flew into my window and left an imprint on the glass for cheering me up, I can thank **Corisanna** and the guest reviewer **BallofFluff** by merging some of their ideas into another fic. Thanks guys.

(Can you tell I'm trying to make up for the fact that I'm probably not going to be active in the next few months?)

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**Alphanumeric**

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For a moment, waking feels as if she has been thrown back eleven years into the past. Tumbled in little but the duvet from her bed and the matching stripes of her underwear, Ichigo considers the slumbering weight of the two dark haired figures at her side as she rubs exhaustion from her eyes. Reaching around for the little body of Yuzu is instinctive in her sleepy daze, but it is only when she doesn't find it that the substitute remembers that she is ten years too old to be sharing distraught dreams with her family. As Ichigo pulls herself up off the floor to right the wiring of her brain, Chihiro mumbles into a pillow and grasps around the space that the ginger has just vacated with a weary movement. The substitute stills, staring at the two snoozing masses that she is tucked between. Kouhei is dead to the world, flattened up against the bed that Ichigo should be sleeping in. Chihiro is curled in the edge of the duvet, her pale toes kept warm under the pyjama shirt that Ichigo should be dressed in.

The shinigami tiptoes out of the cocoon. Her human limbs ache and Ichigo only gets as far as the desk chair before she stumbles. Wrapped under seamless bandages her arms hiss when she catches herself. She curses back at them and flops down into the chair, the plastic an unwelcome chill to her bare skin. Chihiro turns over at the noise and tucks herself under her boyfriend's chin. Kouhei still doesn't move. Ichigo thinks it would be nice to have that kind of security.

Once her cloudy head stops spinning, she peers through the morning haze to survey the amber glow of her bedroom. Outside, the bustle of Fukuoka city is dawning, but in the sanctity of their apartment, the three young adults remain blissfully untouched by the chaos. Rubbing at the bandages protecting her arms, Ichigo spies the leftovers of a hasty dinner that she doesn't recall eating balanced on her bedside cabinet. There are three mugs and no stench of coffee; whatever had transpired the night before must have been dire to break Kouhei from his routine.

Crumpled under the mirror is a blood soaked dress.

Ichigo gathers it up. Trails her fingers through the slashes in the fabric. Lets the fiery remnants of her father's reiryoku tickle across her skin.

She slips on a dressing gown and pads down into the kitchen. He is sitting there, clothed in his shinigami powers and a stony, distant expression. There is a bottle of cheap alcohol on the table next to him, but it is unopened with the label turned away. The hunch in his back suggests that he hasn't moved for hours. He is as still as a guardian angel, but cloaked in pungent shadows he looks as she would imagine death would appear contemplating slaughter.

"Dad?" Ichigo calls. She wonders what hell she must have crawled out of when he lifts his ragged head and doesn't even smile. Stepping through the smog of fear and fury that his reiatsu chokes the room in, the substitute holds her tongue and begins to search through the cupboards for the last of their teacups. What God-awful hour of the morning it is is unknown to Ichigo, but her father looks as if he hasn't slept a wink through the night anyway, so a mug of sugar-overloaded tea will probably do him good.

"I broke it," Isshin says when she resorts to rummaging around the unwashed dishes for the missing utensil. Ichigo turns to him for the first time and notices the broken pieces of ceramic that he is playing with. "I'm sorry."

The kettle screams behind her. Sirens wail in her ears.

"It's okay," she assures, for the lack of anything else to say. "It'll only take me a second to wash –"

"No, no, it's fine, I'm imposing anyway," her father interrupts, shaking his head. He continues to run his fingers along the shattered teacup – there are scratches all over his hands, burning red as if they're crying out from negligence. Ichigo halts her stride through the kitchen, gazes at his screwed up frown, and then drops into the seat opposite. Though the urge twinges through her arms (which could just be her own scrapes complaining), she doesn't take the jagged ceramic away from him.

They say nothing.

The substitute crosses her cold feet under her chair and draws her dressing gown around herself tighter. Isshin watches the action, looking like he wants to cry. Ichigo has never been great at dealing with tears so she hopes it won't come to that. She presses her cracked lips together and distracts herself from the silence by charting the kitchen as if she's woken in someone else's apartment. (She feels as if she has).

"Did I wake you?" Isshin asks eventually. There is still a heavy rumble to his tone, the steel weight of vengeance and remorse. Though Ichigo is decent at perceiving moods, the vile mix of emotions isn't one she ever recalls associating with her father before.

"No," she says, and despite being uncertain as to what exactly roused her, she doubts it was the impermeable security of his reiatsu enveloping the building. "It was probably Chihiro snoring."

Isshin smiles weakly. "_Chihiro_ – that's a nice name," he mutters with the practiced voice of a parent. "I take it the boy is her partner?"

Ichigo wouldn't go quite as far as to call Kouhei a 'boy', but she supposes when you're hundreds of years old a man in his twenties is scarcely an infant. "Yeah. Kouhei. They've been together for two years. You've been here all night?" The subject change is direct enough that he can't ignore it. The 'watching over us' goes unasked, but Isshin's expression shutters anyway.

"Your friends called me just after one. I told them I'd check in on you, though I assumed they don't know about spirits or shinigami."

"This is a long way to shunpo," says Ichigo, incredulous that her father might have made such a journey in the middle of the night.

The question lifts a small smile onto Isshin's face. He rolls his eyes at her in the way that informs her she's said something idiotic. "I bypassed through the Soul Society of course," he explains, laughing softly at Ichigo's embarrassment. "Because yes, this is an awful long way to travel."

She apologises instantly for moving so far away. The disapproving yet amused expression on her father's face intensifies at the words. The ceramic slice chinks as he sets it down onto the table. With the hesitance that only a father of a teenage daughter can acquire in his lifetime, he stretches out for her; he can't reach her shoulder without the movement becoming awkward, so Ichigo's hand meets his halfway. His smile expands out triumphantly, as it always does. Ichigo is going to pretend that she hadn't seen him falter before resting his clammy hand on top of hers.

Isshin's reiatsu mellows. He laughs guiltily, as if he hadn't noticed the void that he had created in the kitchen, and squeezes her hand. Ichigo huffs but allows him to indulge her presence; she can feel his distressed gaze tracking any flickers of emotion in her appearance.

"I'm alright dad," she says eventually.

"You're a strong young woman," he begins, only for Ichigo to cut him off with an exasperated groan. Isshin grins and hangs onto her hand, unfinished in his declaration. "And you're more like your mother than you realise."

Ichigo falters in her argument, ducking her head. They do not talk about Masaki often and she still feels a knot of shame whenever they do. Her mother was everything she ever wanted to be, but the Shiba stubbornness that sets her apart is the curse that had led to Masaki's demise. Her parents must have known that mixing a quincy and a shinigami would produce a dangerous child, though Ichigo supposed they never expected for that power to be turned against them.

"I know you can hold your own," her father continues with a proud tone, eyes gleaming with the memories of their lively household. "But I'm glad you're not seriously hurt. I don't appreciate people attacking my little girl."

"I'm not your _little girl_ anymore," Ichigo replies monotony, because the conversation is far too mushy for their usual standards and she doesn't like it when her father isn't an over-exaggerated goofball.

"You'll always be my little girl," says Isshin, which is exactly the answer she expected him to reply with. They've not had conversations of this nature often, but enough times that Ichigo knows all the lines. "And – speaking of which – I should get back to Karin and Yuzu before they worry."

"I doubt they've even noticed you're gone," Ichigo mumbles, wondering how his masculinity holds up with having three daughters.

The dramatic sobs that erupt around the apartment suggest it doesn't happen well.

She glowers at his ridiculousness.

After her father is temporarily satisfied that she's well and heads back to Karakura, Ichigo salvages some bacon and eggs from the fridge and wakes her flatmates with the fatty aroma of perfection. They stumble in together, scarcely more clothed than she, and yawn their way through the Saturday breakfast routine. Kouhei is more talkative than usual, mumbling small-talk as he washes the dishes and butters the toast. Alternatively his girlfriend sits small and quiet at the table, as if sleep has sucked more than exhaustion out of her bones. Ichigo is not one for empty reassurance so she has little to offer other than a plate of food and an empathetic look, but Chihiro returns a watery smile. It is almost enough until Kouhei pours himself a cup of coffee that looks, smells, and undoubtedly tastes exactly like tea, and Ichigo has to take a smaller bite of toast to prevent herself from choking on the tension in the air.

"I called your boss," Kouhei starts, and for a second Ichigo cannot imagine why he would ever do such a thing. "He says you're not expected to go into work tonight and that he doesn't want to see you until Tuesday at the earliest."

She has a remarkably dull job at an old hotel. It hardly gets any bookings so if she's on the reception she spends most of the evening developing her future travelling plans (which suits her perfectly so she never complains). Sometimes her boss asks her to wait tables and work behind the bar, which is definitely more involved, but the typical staff are so adept at their job that Ichigo is rarely ever needed. She doesn't particularly like her boss – he's a short, balding man with a reedy voice that haunts her dreams and time-management skills of a sloth – so his generosity surprises her.

"When did you talk to him?" Ichigo asks, furrowing her eyebrows. She nibbles uncertainly on her toast.

"Last night," says Kouhei. He glances over at his girlfriend's shrinking posture before saying, "Guess you don't remember that?"

Ichigo doesn't remember much of anything past coughing up her lungs in front of the police department. The memories of the night before are a blur of adrenaline, darkness, and the pulse of crappy music and not enough inhibitions to care; she scowls into her breakfast at the fuzz in her brain.

"I don't remember getting into bed with you two, if that's what you mean," she replies, trying to keep her voice light-hearted to ease the atmosphere. It works somewhat, for both Chihiro and Kouhei cough awkwardly, but with the grave nature of the topic the mirth only lingers for a second. Then faces fall and shoulders tighten; eyes dim under the fall of ebony hair.

"I didn't want to sleep by myself," Chihiro confesses with a mumble. The couple exchange another glance, an entire conversation continuing unheard to Ichigo's ears. Kouhei looks unsettled at his girlfriend's meekness, and the substitute can see that his composure is cracking around the edges. Hers would also feel a strain if Tōshirō or one of her sisters arrived home hysterical, with a police officer grumbling something about a 'party' and an 'assault'.

Kouhei leans over and kisses his partner on the head. Diverting her eyes, Ichigo wonders how Tōshirō will take this whole situation once she finds out – little slips past her gaze unnoticed, and Ichigo is a terrible liar anyway. It's all going to come out in a blubbering mess – she can already hear the conversation; minutes before the captain has to attend a meeting because Ichigo's also awful at prioritising herself like that, and there's no better time to admit something severe than at the worst possible moment.

She swallows a thick lump of undissolved sugar and cringes. Mirroring her, Kouhei sticks out his tongue and it prompts an unexpected laugh from Chihiro. He makes ugly gagging sounds and she laughs even more. Kouhei looks remarkably pleased with himself at the sound. Leaving them to it, Ichigo gathers up the plates and turns away to hide her frown at the dismally consumed bacon left from Chihiro's appetite. However, she says nothing, silently hoping that Kouhei soon returns to drinking coffee for all their sakes.

Chihiro catches her before Ichigo can vacate the kitchen to change out of her dressing gown. Their exchange is brief; a nudge, a fleeting glimpse, a muttered 'you okay?' Ichigo offers a practiced smile and then regrets it when Chihiro returns a painful one. Pale arms wrap around her bruises and linger on the bandages. Ichigo sighs into the hug. Spying Kouhei hovering fretfully, she shifts around Chihiro and beckons him closer – if there's no avoiding it then they might as well do it properly. He swamps them with his height and shoulders, but it is a comforting feeling she no doubt longed for when settled herself between her friends the night before.

It's like being at home again.

After wiggling out of the hug and fruitlessly soothing her nerves in the shower, Ichigo contemplates visiting Soul Society. It's Saturday so her shinigami friends will be expecting her, but as she throws the duvet back on her bed and steps mindfully around the remains of last night's dress, the substitute shinigami isn't sure she can bring herself to venture from the apartment. The enclosed walls of the normality of her human life are a haven against the chaos of Seireitei. A burn of shame makes her falter and glance over at the mobile charging on the desk. Swiftly reminding herself that _she is not weak_, _not cowardly_, and that she's fought in a war _for god's sake_, Ichigo forces herself to ignore the phone, grabs her iPod, and hibernates between the armchair cushions and the gigantic folds of her hoodie.

When her flatmates bicker over the TV remote she doesn't interrupt.

When Kouhei offers her lunch she doesn't reply.

When Chihiro pokes her for signs of life she doesn't move.

When Tōshirō strides into the room like an angel dawning she peers out from behind her knees. Ichigo keeps her earphones in, her heartbeat resounding with the drums of Tōshirō's footsteps. Her impression of a polar bear must be measly to earn the withered expression from the beautiful captain. The substitute curses her friends for being despairing arseholes and smiles feebly up at her girlfriend.

Tōshirō's frightening perception sweeps over her hunched form. "You should eat something," she says coolly.

A burst of anger twists the gleeful bubble in Ichigo's chest that arose from her girlfriend's appearance. "I'm not five," she snaps. Surely Tōshirō hadn't journeyed all this way just to _lecture_ her? She's a twenty year old full-fledged shinigami warrior – she doesn't need someone to dictate how to spend her afternoon. She stopped needing her nappy changed _years_ ago.

It's not her fault some moron decided to attack her while she walked home from a party in her defenceless human form.

"No, you're not," the captain replies smoothly, not a single flicker of irritation in her tone. Ichigo startles back at the tranquil demeanour – the only one in the apartment. Tōshirō's expression softens at the flinch. "But I have been told you've hardly eaten anything but breakfast in the last twenty-four hours and apparently the way to people's hearts nowadays is through their stomachs, which I fathomed was not meant to be taken literally."

Before Ichigo can ask _what on earth_ she's talking about, Tōshirō holds up a translucent plastic bag.

"Is that Chinese?" the ginger bundle blurts instead.

The distasteful expression that darkens onto the captain's face informs her that, yes, what she can smell is most definitely the pungent stench of her favourite take-away. She wrenches out her earphones, uncurling her sore back and limbs from the armchair cage. "Wait – you bought _Chinese_?"

They've been shopping before, and Tōshirō's ability to decipher the unknown is astounding, but Ichigo doesn't think the captain has ever stepped foot into a take-away before, let alone know what one looked like.

"How long did it take you?" the substitute adds before she can stop herself.

_Hilarious_, replies the icy glare. A cheeky smile breaks its way through Ichigo's tension. "Hirabayashi-san told me what to ask for," Tōshirō explains, opening the tubs of rice and noodles and bags of chicken and prawn crackers. Ichigo watches, a feeling of vertigo slowing her comprehension of the scene. The captain continues to wrinkle her nose at the food as she dishes it up onto plates, glancing up at Ichigo occasionally as if to check she hasn't returned to her enduring slumber on the chair.

Ichigo's mouth waters as the plastic bag empties. Her stomach rumbles longingly. "Did you pick up anything for Kouhei and Chihiro?" she asks when Tōshirō only fills two plates, though if she hadn't then at least that meant there was more for her to devour. She's hungrier than she realised.

"No. I offered but –"

"Chihiro doesn't like Chinese," Ichigo remembers abruptly. She thanks her girlfriend for the plate and nestles back into the chair. Then she kicks away the plastic bag because Tōshirō won't stop fussing with it and it's making her nervous.

The white haired shinigami doesn't startle, but an abashed twinge dips her mouth. "That's what Hirabayashi-san claimed," she agrees, picking up the conversation from where Ichigo had mercilessly tossed it.

"Just call him _Kouhei_," the substitute snaps.

She breaks open the chopsticks. The sound is sharp in the silence of her temper.

Tōshirō chews through a spring roll. It's impossible to tell if she likes it or not. The cracking of her teeth grinding the crispy skin is thunder in the thick air between them. Although the captain says nothing in reply to her girlfriend's rage, her eyes are alight with awaiting lightning. Ichigo can feel the brilliant light scorching shame onto her face.

She glares down at the dinner she doesn't deserve. "Sorry," the ginger woman mumbles. Using scapegoats is a terrible habit, and one Ichigo doesn't ever want to get into – particularly if her partner is the unlucky victim. Her selfless girlfriend has done nothing to warrant anger. In fact, Ichigo should be singing Tōshirō's name to the heavens for bestowing Chinese take-away upon her. Especially since the captain has important duties up in Soul Society that Kouhei undoubtedly dragged her away from with his phone call.

(Speaking of her gentle flatmate, Ichigo needs to save some prawn crackers for him in gratitude for all of the effort he has put into picking up the pieces of her mess).

(She further makes a note not to sound overly surprised when she thanks him for calling Tōshirō – he has no idea that contacting the realm of the dead through a mobile phone is even possible, after all).

"It's alright," Tōshirō assures, which just makes Ichigo feel even worse.

"It's not really," she replies. Her weakness is that she bares her emotions on her sleeve, and as they continue working their way through dinner in a half-awkward quiet, Ichigo knows that Tōshirō is fully aware of what she's truly thinking. Despite the atmosphere, the food is delicious, and it does its job in drawing Ichigo out of her shell. She stays tangled in the armchair, however, but Tōshirō seems content with having enough posture for them both.

For the most part anyway. Eventually the captain slides off the sofa and settles down at Ichigo's feet – unable to join her on the small armchair – and Ichigo is so taken aback by the movement that she almost kicks her girlfriend in her rush to right her sulking slouch. Tōshirō ducks out of the way just in time, and then emits an offended noise when the other says, "Get off the floor – I can move."

She tilts her head back and raises a silver eyebrow in invitation.

"Eh," says Ichigo. She drops off the armchair and tucks herself into her girlfriend's side. "Don't say anything," she grumbles.

"Not at all?" replies the captain with an amused tone. Ichigo tuts and jabs her with a foot; Tōshirō doesn't physically retaliate, but the subsequent eye roll is enough to count.

For a while, Tōshirō actually doesn't say anything. As close as they can possibly be without entangling each other in grateful, loving limbs, they remain seated on the floor. Just perceivable in the back of the apartment is the low hum of Kouhei and Chihiro's conversation, but the motionless living room provides a sense of privacy to both couples, and Ichigo cannot discern what is being said. She appreciates the quiet; appreciates Tōshirō's ability to understand the needs and intentions of those around her. It makes her a genius. Book smarts is one thing, but compiling the world and its inhabitants into a form to decode is another. It's as if she is sensitive to every ripple and wave of the ocean; each individual breeze and gale of the air.

How terrifying must it be to process so much information at once?

(No wonder Tōshirō occasionally misses the extremely obvious things).

Ichigo shuffles so she can rest her cheek on her girlfriend's shoulder. The captain hums in compliance as a jumper-drowned hand reaches for her own. Closing her eyes with a sigh, Ichigo tugs her burning reiryoku out of her core and lets it envelope the safety of the tiny figure beside her. Tōshirō is the aftermath of a blizzard, the snow-white salvation. The substitute feels less tainted in her presence.

"When I realised that I needed to become the captain of the Tenth Division," the frozen shinigami begins, the hush of her words resounding strong. "I was laughed at. 'Too young' they said. 'Too gentle'. They knew nothing about me – I was just a third seat – but they assumed I was soft-hearted and weak because I was a woman. It didn't matter that Captain Unohana and Captain Soifon are arguably two of the most dangerous captains in the Gotei Thirteen; they saw my body before my skills and rank. My ambitions were entertaining. They thought I was joking."

Ichigo scoffs. The idea that Tōshirō would jest about a matter as important as her ideals was degrading.

"At first I – I hesitated in persisting. I told myself I was content at being a third seat. I didn't want any trouble. The Tenth was already struggling with rumours and lies from the disappearance of our captain, and I didn't want to add to that. Then Captain Unohana invited me to attend one of her flower arrangement classes – I admit I was put-off by the idea. I had spent a large part of my life trying to fit in with the masculine norm of the Seireitei, and the thought of _arranging flowers_ in my free time was… unsettling."

"But you went?" Ichigo prompts with a voice of wonder. Tōshirō has never truly spoken about her past before and she desperately wants to know more.

"Yes," the captain replies. "Yes I did. I discovered that it's… not a hobby I excel at (I don't have an artistic eye). She had me arranging roses in these little pots and I was awful at it – I kept slicing my hands on the thorns and dripping blood all her over table. But the next day I picked Hyorinmaru up and demanded that they let me take the captaincy test because I was going to perform bankai whether they were recording it or not."

Ichigo can vividly imagine the scene and it delights her. "I bet they were pleased."

"Horrified," Tōshirō agrees. "I imagine your assailant was as well?"

The substitute doesn't startle at the question – she had known where the story was heading. This prior knowledge doesn't make her feel any more prepared to answer the query, however, so Ichigo simply mumbles a short agreement. The shadowed hood and crooked nose flashes across her mind; she doesn't feel like elaborating.

Tōshirō appears to understand. "Some still cannot get past the fact that I am 'pretty'," she continues without a hint of remorse. "But I let them. If they underestimate me, I am not the one who is disadvantaged. The rose is not whom is pricked by a delusion. Don't let their beliefs change you. You are a powerful force, Ichigo, and the clothes you wear and the activities you do are _your_ choice. Don't feel ashamed. And definitely use their misconceptions against them."

Ichigo laughs despite herself. It is the most she has ever heard her girlfriend say in one sitting, and Tōshirō sounds so heartfelt that she can't help but feel warmed by the consideration. The knowing sigh from the captain is a tell-tale sign that she's rolling her eyes. Ichigo glows.

"You know how to make someone feel better," she says, completely serious. She gives Tōshirō's fingers a squeeze, though she cannot tell which of their hands the clammy one is.

"Few people have ever said that to me," says Tōshirō, which is just sad, really, but the comment is swiftly dismissed by the captain. "Are you sure you're not talking about the food?"

"Now that you mention it…" Ichigo teases, evoking a laugh from Tōshirō. "I do love Chinese."

"I gathered." A beat passes before Tōshirō clarifies, still without moving her head lest she disturb Ichigo's rest; "You have curry sauce on your chin."

"What? Why didn't you tell me?" The ginger lurches away, hastily wiping her sleeve over her face, and the captain continues to laugh a merry melody that makes her grin in return. "Is it gone?"

The fleeting kiss Tōshirō turns and presses into her cheek is answer enough. "It's gone."

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**End Notes:** Hope you liked it!

**04/07/14**: A fourth installment to this series has been written, but it can only be found on AO3 as it's explicit. Apologies.


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